


hung up high in the gallery

by inmoonlightigetseasick



Series: where you always go [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Art Museums, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cuddling to avoid hypothermia, gaby being a good friend, how many more tropes could you want??, jet setting all over the world, origin story for that stolen cairo chess set, overprotective illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22659691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmoonlightigetseasick/pseuds/inmoonlightigetseasick
Summary: It hits him, all at once, just how bad this has gotten. How he doesn’t know what he will do if Napoleon leaves him, how useless, how inconsolable it all feels. He thinks about Napoleon constantly, misses him like a limb when he’s gone, worries about him more than he worries about his own life. For the first time in his life, he thinks about retirement, about that possibility, of being together as long as Napoleon will let him stay, let him follow. He thinks about an end that isn’t death. It hits him, that’s all he wants, maybe, all he’s ever wanted, but never dreamed.--What happens after Rome, and what happened long before. How Illya has staved off the push and pull that has always been inevitable. Regardless of how slow he's been to admit it.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: where you always go [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630183
Comments: 10
Kudos: 208





	hung up high in the gallery

**santiago**

It’s difficult to think about him. And it’s not that Illya is any stranger to pain, there’s hardly an inch of his body that has gone unbruised, unbattered, or unscarred. But there’s something different about the way this ache permeates, radiates out from a spot high in his chest, not his heart but all around it. All it takes to get it going is a memory of his smile, the clever points of his canines, the lines that form around his mouth. And it’s not the charmer’s smile, the one he uses to seduce, though that one may have worked on Illya first. It’s that secret smile, lazy, unselfconscious, first thing in the morning, the one Illya leaves behind after a kiss. That’s the one that wrecks him. 

And it’s not just the smile, or Napoleon, the way Illya’s body is attuned to him, strings taut like a broad double bass. It’s the absence of him that hurts, it’s the fear of never seeing him again that terrifies, and it’s all that together that makes him restless, and hasty. 

So he tries to keep his mind on other things. He always thought he was a professional before he was anything else, a soldier before he was a human, a fighter before he was a lover. But something had changed, something shifted on a molecular level.

He’s still not comfortable talking about it, saying what it is. In all honesty, he’d never imagined himself allowed this— a kind of safety and happiness that was unwarranted for a life like his. And in some ways, he understands why he has it now in these half measures. It’s an unspeakable sort of love, not because they’re both men. It has nothing to do with them and everything about the world they live in. They are careful and discreet when they are together, and though U.N.C.L.E. as an organization supports them, Illya is not naive to the way people stare, and the way people talk. 

He’s always so close to violence, to defend this thing that has cleaved itself onto the most tender parts of his heart. These days he finds he can’t stand it, can’t go too long without hearing Napoleon’s voice. He feels that potential energy, the thrum of his irritability that can so quickly take a dangerous turn, ready and full to bursting. 

It’s risky, with the mission nowhere near complete; he calls Napoleon, late, late one night. 

“Hello?” Napoleon’s voice is rough, sleep-addled. It’s far too early in London. 

“Cowboy,” he breathes, relaxing into a smile he saves only for Napoleon, he wishes Napoleon could see it, could trace the soft lines in his cheeks, the slight dimple there. 

“Peril, I thought you’d never call,” he chuckles, low, and deep and it sends a shiver down Illya’s spine, “How is everything going over there?” 

“It is as good as we can hope,” Illya says, bites down on a sigh. He knows Napoleon will decode his words to understand that things are not ideal, that the mission will likely be prorogued, that they will not see each other for longer now. Longer than they had thought. He hears Napoleon’s thoughtful hum on the other side of the line, tinny and distant. He also hears a hint of irritation, but he cannot really say more, cannot divulge the sensitive details of his work. Normally, they would have both known what was going on, would have discussed their strategy in detail, but that just isn’t possible anymore. So they are silent for a while, longer than usual. Illya bites down on his lip, anxious as he awaits Napoleon’s response. 

“I miss you,” Napoleon says finally, and it makes Illya’s heart ache. He misses Napoleon too, more than he can fathom, more than he can put into words.

“It is different,” Illya says, “Working without you.” 

Napoleon makes a thoughtful hum, which turns into a low chuckle. “I’m sure you don’t miss me ruining the mission at every turn.” 

Illya smiles, he can’t help it, “You must not miss my stubbornness. My impatience.” 

“There’s no way you miss me picking fights with you every chance I’d get, just so you’d look at me for more than ten seconds at a time.” 

“You cannot miss my micromanaging your every move. Trying to hide how much I cared about you by criticizing.” 

“I bet you don’t miss rescuing me.” 

“You don’t miss me destroying every hotel room.”

“No, no,” Napoleon says at last. There’s a tired sort of urgency to his voice. “I miss everything.”

All at once, Illya feels the dense heat in the air, something lurching in his chest, a deep, unshakeable sense of absence. “When I come back,” he promises, “You will take me to National Gallery, yes?” 

“Well, of course, we need to get you cultured somehow.” 

“It will be slow process, be patient with me.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Napoleon laughs, “But it is hard. Without you here. In bed with me.” 

Illya feels a shiver run down his spine, “Soon. I promise. Keep it warm for me. And stay safe.” 

“Come on, Peril, they’ve got me on desk duty. What could happen to me?”

“Don’t drink too much. Eat properly. Call me if you feel too lonely.”

“Okay, Dr. Peril, message received.” He laughs again, and it bothers Illya, that he takes his concern so cavalierly. 

“Napoleon.” Illya’s use of his real name must give him pause, if not the graveness of his tone. He hears Napoleon swallow on the other end of the line, as if anticipating the lecture that will follow. But then Illya hears distantly, a call from one of his handlers on this mission. Their conversation is cut short. He sighs. “I have to go now. But please. Do as I say.” He pauses for a second, breathes, his next words still sitting, unfamiliar on his tongue. “I love you.” But they’re so easy to say, because they’re true. 

“I love you, too,” comes softly from the other end of the line. “Come back to me soon.” 

**tokyo**

He remembers how the city was glittering, even late at night, buzzing with energy and neon lights. The slender silver lengths of the buildings lit up multicolour had cast light, red, green, orange, blue, into their top floor hotel room. 

They had shared a charged moment that night. Months before anything, any real indication that Napoleon had an interest in him. But Illya had already begun to feel the tendrils of desire start to take hold of his heart, it made him wary, and skittish sometimes, but not so much that he couldn’t keep up appearances. 

That night, they had been habitually celebrating the end of a mission through ablution by sake, the good, expensive kind. Napoleon had pouted, glass pressed against his plush bottom lip, when Illya had complained, that any old sake would do in Japan. He had been berated for his lack of taste. He had rolled his eyes, even though inwardly appreciative of the smooth, cold way the drink had slid down his throat, how the warmth radiated evenly through his chest. Though it was good stuff, it affected him and Napoleon at a significantly slower rate than it did Gaby, who took her leave at one point. 

Then, in the haze, somehow, he and Napoleon ended up sitting sprawled on the floor, leaning their backs against the low, modern sofa. They weren’t quite facing each other, Illya looked on straight ahead to the fireplace, long legs stretched out before him. But Napoleon was more haphazard with his limbs, and was leaning vaguely in Illya’s direction. Illya was focusing on his drink, something about the undone way Napoleon was sitting, the top few buttons of his shirt open, jacket discarded, hair coming free from its pomade— it was doing something to him, something he could usually ignore better when his faculties weren’t so pleasantly dulled by drink. 

It just occurred to him, in that moment, how few people get to see Napoleon like this. Unguarded, relaxed, laughing. Not the laugh of a trained charmer, but the carefree lopsided grin, the doubled-over, unselfconscious laughter of a friend. 

When Illya realized how wholly he had given himself over to this privilege, to this access, and how devastated he would be to lose it, he had made up his mind that he never would. He couldn’t risk it. He had never had something like this before. Perhaps he would never find it again. 

Which is why he had felt his heart stop when Napoleon asked him, “Have you ever kissed a man?” 

He could feel his body stiffen, straining hard to keep his expression impassive, “I have not.” 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it. He certainly knew men could be beautiful, it was one of the first things he had noticed about Napoleon, but he had seen it in Napoleon’s marks as well. The way men held themselves, careful, coiffed, but with a hint of danger beneath the surface— it had never not intrigued him. He had just never had the chance to explore something like that, never thought it possible. 

It was certainly impossible with Napoleon, which is why his head snapped towards him when he said, “Would you like to try it?” His smile was different now. It was practiced, deliberate. It was the familiar smile Napoleon used on his marks. The sight of it made disappointment sink in Illya’s stomach like a stone. 

“No,” he said simply, and he took another drink. The clumsy movement of his hand betrayed the spikes of anxiety this conversation was giving him, drops of sake spilled from the corners of his mouth. It didn’t escape Napoleon’s notice. 

But the American only sighed, “I guess it’s not the Russian way.” And Illya had hoped he would leave it that. The terrible joke to cover the terrible moment. But he didn’t. Instead, his voice changing, quiet and earnest, he said, “It’s not so bad, you know.” 

“I’m sure,” Illya murmured, not knowing what could possibly do that wouldn’t betray too much. He couldn’t look at Napoleon anymore, it became impossible to do so without imagining what it would be like to kiss him. And that was a dangerous pattern of thought. 

So Illya stood up, unsteady on his feet, and excused himself, claiming he was tired— which he was, his fatigue was bone-deep. He was exhausted from all it took to keep the horrible truth from tumbling out of him, the true depths of his feelings for Napoleon sat like a surge of nervous bile at the top of his throat, threatening to spill, messy and irreversible. 

In his haste to leave, he had missed the way Napoleon had flushed, embarrassed, the colour high on his cheeks, how he had hidden his disappointment in another sip of his drink, how he had said nothing, just watched Illya’s retreating form. 

**london**

The rain lashes the windows, heavy grey sheets of it fall and fall and fall. The traffic is all backed up because of it, and from outside, Illya stares blankly at the millions of pale yellow dots, like endless eyes in a dark jungle, lined up, unmoving along the motorway. 

_He should have been there._ This is what he thinks. This is what he has _been_ thinking since he heard the news, of course, as soon as the blood red haze of anger and hurt and confusion and terror had passed. He should have been there. Napoleon wouldn’t be in the hospital if he were. He would be awake, whole, healthy, welcoming him home. They would have had a warm meal on a rainy night, he would have fallen asleep to the rise and fall of Napoleon’s chest. Instead, he couldn’t even see where Napoleon was maybe dying right now. Instead, Napoleon was lying, intubated, unconscious in a cold blue hospital bed, with masked doctors hovering around him, poking and prodding the life back into him. 

The thought makes Illya sick. A constant, unending nausea. His hands shake. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Illya. Please, you can’t blame yourself.” Gaby is pleading with him, perched next to him on the uncomfortable waiting room seats. Her voice sounds distant, distorted. She has already told him this several times, more times than he can count in the time they’ve been waiting here. What else can she say? He turns to look at her, hoping it might make her feel more real. He notices, with a pang, that her eyes are pink around the rims, her makeup smudged from crying. When she notices he is looking at her, a small, determined spark reenters her gaze. “None of us could have seen this coming, you have to understand.” 

But he doesn’t understand. None of it makes sense. Where was he? Why wasn’t he there? 

“I could have—“ he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. “If I was here— He wouldn’t have gone.”

“You don’t know that. He’s always been reckless. He always gets himself into trouble. You’ve never stopped him before.” 

He knows Gaby is right. They would have argued, and he would have still gone to investigate this lead, for a case that wasn’t even his, all alone. He wouldn’t have seen it to be a trap. Even Illya wouldn’t have. T.H.R.U.S.H involvement on this petty level is rare. A diplomat’s missing briefcase. That’s it. That paltry thing is what Napoleon risked his life for, and now, was in danger of losing it altogether. They may have realized it eventually, but no one had been smart enough to tell the restless, desk-bound Napoleon to just _wait_ and think for five seconds before jumping.

And the idiot had promised Illya he would stay safe.

Then the doctor comes, and Illya has to swallow his anger. He shoots up out of his chair, Gaby close on his heels and they wait for the update. “Good news,” she says, and Illya’s breath leaves his body in a gust of relief. “We were able to resuscitate him quick enough that he didn’t lose too much oxygen. His vitals are stable, but he’ll be in a coma for a little longer as he recovers from the surgery on his legs. I’ll not mince words, his injuries were serious. It will take some time, but he will recover.”

“Thank you,” Gaby says, sincere where Illya cannot find the words. He is silent, at once relieved and still terrified. The doctor nods and moves to leave when Illya finds his words. 

“Can I see him?” 

The doctor hesitates. “I can’t let you inside quite yet but you can see him from the window.” 

That is enough for Illya. He doesn’t know how his feet carry him to the strange, cold glass. Behind it, the sight makes Illya’s breath stick in his chest, building pressure behind his eyes. He blinks hard, several times to stave off imminent tears. Napoleon looks so small, so alone, wrapped up in the sterile white sheets in the room. The machinery and tubing twisting in and out of him look unnatural, painful. He is so pale, cold, still, but for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. 

It hits him, all at once, just how bad this has gotten. How he doesn’t know what he will do if Napoleon leaves him, how useless, how inconsolable it all feels. He thinks about Napoleon constantly, misses him like a limb when he’s gone, worries about him more than he worries about his own life. For the first time in his life, he thinks about retirement, about that possibility, of being together as long as Napoleon will let him stay, let him follow. He thinks about an end that isn’t death. It hits him, that’s all he wants, maybe, all he’s ever wanted, but never dreamed. But now, that it’s been risked like this, that he nearly lost it, the desperation clings tighter, the fear grows. He can’t let it become a dream once more. His finger taps against his thigh, he tries but he’s never really been able to hold all of his emotions in, close, and hidden like Napoleon can. It all feels so dangerously on the brink of spilling over, raw, and ugly, and impossible to take back. He looks at Napoleon, wishes him a restful sleep, it gives him time to think. Time to try and mitigate this disaster in his heart as much has he possibly can. 

Dimly, he is aware of Gaby at his side. 

“You’ll take some time off. Stay with him while he recovers,” she says quietly. 

Suddenly, Illya feels much of his rage dissipate. Gaby’s words, her small kindness has twisted something in his heart, has put this all into perspective. He deflates where the anger was holding his spine rigid. He turns and embraces Gaby, it’s so unlike him she can feel her momentary surprise, but she leans into the hug quickly, wraps her arms around him tight. She is just as much of his family as Napoleon is, though his love for her is different. It once felt like a spark, now mellowed into the incandescent friendship between them, still warm, still home-feeling. Sometimes he thinks it would have been easier, had it been the two of them. But other times he knows that it was never really an option. So he offers the love he _can_ give her, tucking her tiny form close against him. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs into her shoulder, “thank you, thank you.” 

**cairo**

It had been the clearest blue sky Illya had ever seen. The sun shone, unobstructed, harsh, burning. The streets were awash with light white linen, and bright gauzy fabric. Merchants on the sidestreets, the sounds of life bursting through the air. 

He remembers walking down a market street, being in an absolutely rotten mood. Hot weather had never agreed with him, and this time was no different. He was in a light linen shirt, still long-sleeved, and nowhere near as obscenely transparent as Napoleon’s. Still the tight lines of his muscles, the rigid frame of his spine— it all seemed so unnecessarily on display. And that anxiety was only accessory to the real discomfort he felt which was the constant tug in his chest whenever he saw Napoleon, carefree, laughing, tanned. He looked so beautiful, so in his element, Illya had been terrified at what it was doing to him, burning him from within. 

They walked side by side, which gave Illya the option to keep his gaze trained on the middle distance, even when Napoleon was prattling on about something or another at his side. He knew he should listen, be a good friend, but he wasn't really sure where he stood with Napoleon, not since his drunken request those few months ago, something they had never addressed. 

“—and it wasn’t my fault, anyway.”

He was harsher than he meant to be when he snapped, “It does not matter. Stop talking about it now.” 

Napoleon shut his mouth with a click, his own brow furrowing. “Fine,” he said, walking up ahead, in a moment Illya lost him in the crowd. He cursed under his breath. 

It didn’t matter. They would meet back at the checkpoint after they had followed up on this lead. It didn’t matter. He could use some time away from Napoleon too. It was not just the heat, it was Napoleon, it was his very presence that was setting him on the edge. Illya had felt, strangely, that he could finally breathe now that Napoleon was gone. 

But that feeling didn’t last. When Napoleon didn’t show back at their safe house, Illya felt his chest grow tight for another reason, an all consuming anxiety was beginning to make the edges of his vision red. Distantly, he heard the call to prayer sounding through the city. He waited, waited until he could no longer take it.

He stood up, and then Napoleon entered. He looked far worse for wear, his hair mussed, his lip bloody, his shirt was torn at the collar, bloodied at his waist. 

“What happened to you?” he snapped, he couldn’t have stopped himself.

Napoleon had taken a few heavy breaths, smiled a bloody smile, and tossed something at him. Wordlessly he caught it, looked down, it was a chess set. Hand carved. It looked local. Beautiful. Something strange fluttered in Illya’s chest, he knew what this was all about, but he asked anyway, in case Napoleon might say it out loud, “What is this?”

“A gift.” 

“You stole this?”

“Does it matter?”

Illya had felt his chest tighten then. He wouldn’t be getting any answers tonight. It seemed like to Napoleon, it didn’t matter, the weight of the implications behind this, the possibility of having it all out now. So he tossed it aside, towards the bed, heard it clatter somewhere. “I do not accept stolen goods. Where were you?”

Something in Napoleon’s expression had darkened, the smile fell off his face, and he looked away. He winced like he was only now starting to feel his wounds. “Target realized he had a tail. Didn’t like that. Decided to show me.” His voice was stiff, distant now. Illya had been puzzled. 

“Did you at least find out location of the base?”

“I didn’t,” he sighed, “But I managed to stick a tracker on the guy.” Illya had nodded, without looking at Napoleon again he had moved to his equipment and had begun looking for the bug. He nearly didn’t notice the way Napoleon was hobbling, painfully carrying himself across to the bathroom. But he did notice, because the magnetic pull of concern was strong, his eyes were greedy for Napoleon after not seeing him for so long, after worrying about him for so long. So he sighed, tossing his tracking equipment down he followed Napoleon into the bathroom.

When he opened the door, Napoleon looked up, surprised. He had divested of his shirt, and Illya took a look at the full extent of his injuries. It was not good. The broad white expanse of his back was mottled with bruises, a gash ran across the side of his flank. It looked bad, like it needed stitches. They looked at each other for a minute, Napoleon in shock quickly disguised as annoyance, and Illya wasn’t sure how he looked, he felt worried, but he feared he just looked angry. He sighed. 

“Sit down,” he gestured to the flat edge of the bathtub. Napoleon bristled. 

“I can handle myself, thank you.”

Illya’s anger spiked. “You clearly cannot if you get stabbed trying to complete simple intel mission.” 

“Oh here we go again, I’m such a terrible spy, you’re the best, I can only learn for you—ah fuck.” Napoleon’s rant was interrupted by the clear pain in his side, he hissed, holding his hands to the wound to staunch the bleeding that was starting again in earnest. 

“Sit down,” Illya said again, but this time he was unafraid to grab Napoleon’s arm and gently push him in the right direction. Napoleon must really have been hurting, because he didn’t resist. Instead, he sat down, pouting, while Illya held some gauze to the wound to stop the bleeding, cleaned it diligently, and administered the stitches with an uncommonly steady hand. They passed these long moments in silence, Illya concentrating on the rise and fall of Napoleon’s chest, the hard planes of muscle. Tension and anger still prickled in the air between them, but even Napoleon could recognize when he needed to shut up and let Illya help him. 

When Illya was finished, he lay a hand gently on an unbruised stretch of Napoleon’s back, stroked his thumb across the soft skin. Napoleon looked at him, another flash of surprise in his eyes, this time not so quickly veiled, but even when his expression changed, it changed to a question. What were they doing here? 

“Do not do that to me again,” Illya had said, sincerity soaking his voice, he looked into Napoleon’s eyes so he would not misunderstand him. Napoleon looked back, meeting the challenge, but Illya saw him swallow, breaking their gaze as his eyes dipped to the long stretch of Napoleon’s neck, the bobbing Adam’s apple. Unforgivably, he felt himself flush, burn from the top of his chest to his ears. 

“Worried about me, Peril?” Napoleon asked, he smiled then, handsomely, disingenuously. He looked at Illya the way he often did, a lustful gaze, naked desire, like Illya was something he wished to possess, and every clue Illya let slip that he was not made of steel, that he was indeed vulnerable to Napoleon’s charms, the happier, more foxlike he got. 

“Someone has to make sure mission goes right,” Illya had deflected, but even he knew he was hardly convincing. He wondered in that moment if Napoleon knew he did not have to try so hard, to savour every little victory. Napoleon possessed him completely. Illya could never figure out how it happened, but his heart was gone, and in its place was only Napoleon. But Illya watched the gleeful roll of Napoleon’s eyes, the knowing smirk, that Illya was flustered, that some part of his guard had been chipped down. And if Napoleon did not know the full extent, then he should never know, and Illya would take that chance to try and undo some part of this, try and extricate himself even a little. 

He had not known then that this was impossible. 

**new york**

It’s when he’s hailing a cab, the stench of hot garbage wafting off of the concrete, a thousand people yelling at him in a thousand different directions, that Illya realizes he’s been had. He imagines he puts up a fair fight against moving Napoleon from the U.N.C.L.E. base in London, but the stubborn bastard wins once again. As soon as he’s out of physical therapy, he insists on finishing his convalescence in New York, wanting to be closer to home. Illya can’t quite begrudge him that, though he goes rather unwillingly. 

“What about National Gallery?” he asks, he does _not_ pout. But Napoleon still smiles at him, openly fond, so at least that is something. And he laughs and pulls Illya close, conspiratorial, leaning towards him in the cab, he whispers, “I’ll do you one better— the Met.”

“How is this better? Because it is American?” 

Napoleon’s smile turns wistful, his voice is soft. “It’s where I first fell in love with art.”

Illya would kiss that smile off his face if not for the driver. So he saves the impulse for later, when they are alone. For now, he says, “I want to see your favourite painting.”

“Deal,” Napoleon grins. Then, he is staring at Illya’s lips, he wants to kiss Illya too, but he casts a glance at the driver and sighs. Illya catalogues that sigh and makes a promise to rectify it, a promise that Napoleon should only sigh with pleasure, rather than disappointment. 

And he makes good on that promise once he helps Napoleon into his brownstone, unloading their bags, he casts them aside for later, and crowds Napoleon against the wall where he stands. He’s mindful of Napoleon’s crutches, mindful of his still-sore body. He’s more aware of it than Napoleon is, who grabs Illya’s sweater in greedy handfuls and pulls him close, desperate. Illya has barely touched him, only kissed him closed-mouthed and chaste, but Napoleon is already whining, making frustrated noises, clawing closer. Illya deepens the kiss tentatively, opening his mouth and feeling the slick slide of Napoleon’s tongue, savouring the taste of it. Napoleon’s breath is already ragged. Illya slows down further, stroking his fingers down Napoleon’s cheek, ghosting his touch along his neck, he feels the frenetic leaping of his pulse. He kisses that spot, puts his tongue there, feels it speed up even more. 

With a frustrated little noise Napoleon tugs Illya’s mouth back up to his own, kisses him deep and dirty and full of promise. Illya stills Napoleon’s hands which are roaming, smoothing down his back and pressing him closer, pressing Napoleon harder against the wall. He takes Napoleon’s hands in his own, twines their fingers together, softens the kiss. Napoleon sighs, and tips his head back, looking at Illya, his hair is mussed, his lips red and shining, his eyes pale rings of blue. He furrows his brow, looking more annoyed than debauched. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me, you know.”

“You’re hurt.” 

He scoffs, “I’m fine! Look, I’m all better, I promise. Please.” 

“Napoleon.” 

“You never call me Cowboy, anymore.”

“I want you to take this seriously.” 

“Feel how serious I am.” He takes Illya’s right hand where it’s joined with his own, presses it down. Illya feels his heart leap into his throat, his own body reacts in turn.

He takes his hand away, threads it in Napoleon’s hair instead, and pushes Napoleon’s head back so it thumps gently against the wall behind him. He looks Napoleon dead in the eye. 

His look of warning only serves to drive Napoleon crazier. “ _Peril_ ,” he whines. 

“I will show you,” Illya says then, his voice a low growl, “I can make you feel good _and_ keep you in one piece.”

This finally seems to silence Napoleon, who nods, and succumbs. He lets himself be kissed gently, even though Illya can feel the thrum of energy under his skin, at every point of contact between their bodies. Still, a testament to Napoleon’s patience. He lets Illya lead him to his bed, half carrying him up the stairs. He lets Illya strip him slowly, he waits, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as Illya undresses himself. And he lets Illya take him apart, slowly, lets Illya savour every sound. There are moments he slips, where it gets to be too much, but Illya responds in kind, picks up the pace where he feels Napoleon can handle it. They pass an indeterminate amount of time in delirious pleasure, this unending push and pull.

When they collapse, finally, bonelessly against one another. Napoleon falls asleep instantly, totally and utterly spent, and Illya catches his breath, staring up at the white ceiling. Though he is exhausted, he can’t seem to sleep, instead he listens to the soft sounds of Napoleon’s breaths, feels the solid weight of him against his chest, and lies awake, terrified to lose it all again. He’s achingly aware of the limited time they have together like this, until he is shipped off again to another mission, until Napoleon is out of his reach. 

“I wish it did not have to be like this,” he murmurs. He finally closes his eyes. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to the sunlight streaming in from the window, the low blare of police sirens and traffic and the mess of life in New York. He sighs, Napoleon is still fast asleep, curled tightly against him, his leg thrown over Illya’s hips, his arms clasped possessively around Illya’s chest, his head tucked into Illya’s shoulder. 

Illya runs a hand idly up and down the length of Napoleon’s bicep where it rests over his chest, his motions are soothing, trying not to disturb his sleep. Napoleon sighs and melts into the touch, and Illya thinks, this is it. This is all he’s ever wanted, to wake up like this, to feel at peace like this, to be this close, to be loved like this. It hurts that it’s all so temporary. It hurts so much that Illya finds he can’t even enjoy this moment, not really, not without thinking about it being taken from him. His body must tense up, or Napoleon might be more awake than he thinks, because he stirs then, opening his eyes, confused and bleary, blinking against the morning light. 

“What time is it?” he says, his voice still gravelly from sleep, yawning immediately after. He extricates himself from his hold on Illya for a minute to stretch and preen like a cat. Illya smiles at the sight of him, pulls him close when he’s done. 

“Still early, you can go back to sleep.” 

Napoleon closes his eyes and curls up again, hums in appreciation as Illya presses a kiss to the top of his head. As he nuzzles closer, he mumbles, “Why are you up?”

“New York is too loud.” That makes him laugh his shoulders shaking in Illya’s embrace.

He stops laughing, and sighs, his breath tickles Illya’s chest. “Hey,” he says, and Illya catches the concerned note in his voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just. You said something last night. I heard it as I was falling asleep. I think you said something like you wish it didn’t have to be like this. What… what did you mean?” 

Illya’s fingers stilled where they played against Napoleon’s skin. He could feel his arms tense up, his whole body freeze. Napoleon feels his discomfort, looks up at him with concern in his eyes, tacit understanding, he doesn’t have to tell Napoleon if he can’t. That alone makes Illya relax. Makes the vulnerable truth more willing to come out.

He takes a deep breath, sits up against the pillows, Napoleon shifts up as well, and settles into his arms. Illya is grateful for this, he looks out into the middle distance as he begins. “You already know this but… I have been thinking a lot recently, about how temporary this is.” Illya clears his throat and continues, seeing something in Napoleon’s gaze already careening towards misunderstanding. “I mean our visits together.” 

“I don’t like it either.” 

“When we worked together. That’s when I worked my best.”

“But there was always a risk there, Peril. We would compromise the mission for each other.”

“I know. And I know in our line of work we cannot really risk that. But it is what is bothering me. Just that. I do not like being away from you. I do not like not being there when,” he swallows, can’t bring himself to say it, finishes the sentence, his voice hoarse, “when I should.” 

Napoleon sits back so he can look Illya in the eye. “Peril, this wasn’t your fault.” 

“I just want to be there to look after you.”

“You _are_ here, Illya. You’re here when it counts.”

Illya wants to believe him. He pulls Napoleon in for a kiss, tries to draw all the conviction Napoleon seems to have in spades and take some for himself. He’s not sure if it works. But isn’t this what he asked for? Reassurance? The power of words to smooth a situation where their actions yield little. 

“Have you ever thought about when this is all over?” Napoleon asks this question with a smile and Illya can’t fathom why, the thought makes his heart drop into his stomach.

“You made me think about it recently.” 

Napoleon has the audacity to laugh about this again, Illya feels his heart thump, heavy and serious. But Napoleon runs a soothing hand over Illya’s chest. “Not _that_ , Peril.” 

“What, then?”

“Retirement?” 

Illya sniffs, “I suppose I have not thought of it.” 

“Will you think about it now? Spending it with me?”

“It is still long time away.” 

“I know. But if we start thinking about it now, there’s this great place up in Cape Cod where I always imagined myself growing old, when I indulged in that particular fantasy of course. And on the off chance that it happens, I’m not too disappointed that I don’t just picture myself with my painting and a sheepdog anymore.” 

“No? What changed?”

“Well, you’ll be there, of course.” 

Illya’s breath catches in his throat. _Yes_ , he hears his heart scream. It’s all he’s ever wanted. “You have been thinking this for a long time?”

“Well, only since Rome.”

**oslo**

Frozen daggers of ice were flying through the air, the wind carried them like missiles in a circular torpedo and they gathered in tall snow piles into which Illya and Napoleon sank with every step. But Illya had always respected this about winter, that it was unforgiving, that it was unrelenting, that humans chose to bear it anyway, that humans learned to live with it, to survive. This was their lesson at the tail end of this mission-gone-awry, as they trudged against the endless assault of the storm, the safe house was finally within sight. He cast his glance back towards Napoleon, who was gratefully sheltering himself from the wind against Illya’s back, and he proffered a feeble thumbs up, and acknowledgement that they were still going. 

The wind was howling too loudly for them to speak. So they crossed the seemingly insurmountable distance in silence. When they finally collapsed into the safe house, Napoleon rushed towards the fire pit, with shaking hands all covered in snow, began the process of trying to light it. 

By the time he’d got it going, Illya approached him with a bundle of blankets in his hands, it was every single one he could find in the house. He dumped them at their feet. 

“Strip,” he commanded. 

“Slow down, Peril,” Napoleon laughed even though he was shivering, “At least buy me dinner first.” 

“We will cook after we warm up.”

Napoleon had rolled his eyes, and Illya had chalked up the moment to another instance of Napoleon’s humour and his own pragmatism running up against each other. Really, he was not in his right mind to translate English humour just then. Napoleon was sensitive enough to that to let it go, wordlessly removing each item of clothing as Illya did the same. 

Napoleon finished undressing first. He had wrapped himself up in blankets and plopped down in front of the fire, huffing and shivering still. He looked up at Illya inquisitively as he stood in front of him, stark naked. Illya felt himself blush, despite the cold. But he kept his voice as steady as he could manage. 

“Let me in,” he demanded, kicking slightly at the blankets where Napoleon held them closely around himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon chuckled, but his face was red and he wouldn’t look directly at Illya. Strange. Illya would have thought he’d use the opportunity to ogle. “Are— are the other thirty blankets not going to be enough for you?”

“Body heat, Cowboy.” 

“Is that really necessary? I mean we have a fire and everything.” 

“You are going to question what I know about staving off hypothermia? Really?” 

Napoleon looked up at him then, keeping his eyes trained carefully on Illya’s eyes, he sighed then and looked away. “I guess not,” he said finally, and he held one arm out, opening the layers of blankets. 

Illya crouched down to his knees then, bringing two more blankets, he wrapped them both up tight, and underneath the layers he looped his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders and pulled him close, so they sat side by side, the line of Napoleon’s thigh pressed right up against Illya’s. Illya sighed from the instant heat in the connection, shifted closer still so his chest was pressed against the Napoleon’s side. Napoleon snaked his own arm behind Illya and wrapped it around Illya’s waist, clearly craving the heat now that he’d gotten a taste of it. Illya kept a smug comment to himself. He looked down at Napoleon’s mussed hair, Napoleon’s gaze was trained away from him, towards the fire. Illya didn’t think anything of it when he moved his free hand into Napoleon’s hair, combing it back, away from his face. 

But Napoleon startled, and looked up at Illya, eyes wide and pupils dilated, colour high on his cheeks. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Fixing hair.” 

That made him crack a smile. “Better now?” 

Illya made a thoughtful hum and stuck his fingers back in Napoleon’s hair. He was stroking it back and combing it through, scratching soothingly at Napoleon’s scalp until Napoleon’s eyes closed and he sighed, content. He stopped finally, smoothing his curls back into place. “Better,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. 

Illya watched as Napoleon swallowed, his eyes still closed. There was suddenly a tense set to his jaw, Illya let his hand wander up there to smooth it away, but Napoleon recoiled then suddenly, angling his face away from Illya’s touch.

“Don’t do this, Illya,” Napoleon said then, Illya could tell it was taking a lot for him to keep his voice even, his grip on Illya’s waist had gone tight, almost uncomfortable. “Don’t do this unless you actually want to do this.”

Illya startled then, and though he knew they were in a fairly compromising position, he realized all at once just what the implications of his actions were. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah, you never do.” Napoleon’s voice was harsh, bitter. Illya figured he deserved it.

The unquiet feeling lingered between the two of them, sucked the air dry of that easy comfort that used to live around them. But maybe that feeling had been missing for a while. At least since Illya had realized the true depths of his feelings. But the whole reason he refused to act on them was this— that he didn’t want to ruin their friendship. But was he ruining it anyway?

He cleared his throat, “I never thought I would be allowed to have this. Even this.” 

“What is this?” Napoleon was sullen, monotone, looking determinedly at the fire. 

“Friends? Partners?” 

“What, friends weren’t allowed in the KGB?” 

“It was allowed, yes. But I never met anyone like you. Or Gaby.” 

“What’s so different about us? I mean, other than the obvious.” 

Illya thought for a long moment. “It is easy to be myself around you.” 

Napoleon turned to Illya then and smiled, brief and brilliant, and it hurt to look at directly. Illya’s lips quirked upwards in return, but he had turned his gaze to the flickering fire. “Hey,” Napoleon said and nudged him, drawing his gaze back, capturing it with an intense look of his own. “I’m glad you said that. I’m glad you can be yourself with me. With us.” 

And Illya had been telling the truth, for once, it hadn’t felt like pulling teeth. But what he concealed was that his feelings for Napoleon were so much deeper than he’d ever had for a friend, and they were all wrapped up in this desire, this knowledge that Napoleon was beautiful and fleeting and that his touch could burn. Illya wanted to be happy just like this, for as long as he could stand it. And for now, he could stand it. He could wait. He believed there would be a time for them, even if it was not now. Now, it was enough to work with him, to be his friend, to luxuriate in this accidental closeness, these incidental touches. He wasn’t sure that he was allowed to ask for more. 

Still he did, just to hear it. 

“Why?” 

“Well, because, I like who you are. I think you should be yourself more often.”

Illya felt a little stunned, despite himself. Napoleon saw his look, tracking every micro-expression from their minute distance apart, and he had smiled, told Illya not to look so shocked. 

“I’ve done terrible things.” 

“You think I haven’t? It’s just part of the job.” 

“I think you may be right,” Illya had muttered. _I think you may be the only person who understands_ , Illya left unsaid. 

**cape cod**

He likes to focus on the blue, constant motion of the water. It’s where he finds his calm. Though this feeling isn’t as hard to come by as it once was, he still cherishes this process— this slow motion into finding his peace. He breathes fresh, salty air. He feels the caress of the breeze through his hair, whiter than it was before. Napoleon still says he’s handsome, though that hardly matters to Illya. What Illya cherishes is this— his wretchedly early mornings, his easy search for tranquility. 

It’s just that his heart has never stopped getting excited in Napoleon’s presence. Even when he sneaks back into their bedroom, tucks his cold body back under the furnace of the covers and Napoleon’s sleeping form. He feels his peace erased, replaced instead by joy, thrill, hunger. Even after all this time, the familiar weight of Napoleon, the shape of him in Illya’s arms, pulse energy back into his being, make him come alive. 

When Illya wraps his cold limbs around Napoleon, in particular pressing his feet against the warmth of Napoleon’s calves, he feels Napoleon shiver, but still buries himself closer into Illya’s arms. A laugh bubbles out of his chest, entirely without his permission, at Napoleon’s stubbornness to touch him, even when he’s cold and still damp from the sea spray. His chuckle is deep and full and it shakes Napoleon in his arms enough so that he stirs and looks up at Illya with a confused, half-asleep expression, his hair sticking out at all ends. He pouts, “You’re cold.”

“You can warm me up.”

“How warm are we talking, exactly?” Even now, there’s a playful, suggestive lilt to his voice. 

“Gently. I am old man now.”

“You’re a spring chicken, Peril, just like the day I met you.”

Illya wrinkles his nose in the way that Napoleon has told him countless times is _adorable_ , but it is a reaction that he just can’t help. Upon sight, Napoleon laughs and comes closer and kisses the expression right off his face. 

“I’m serious,” Napoleon says, pulling his lips away but keeping close, “You’re like a fine wine, Peril, you only get better with age.”

“This is you being serious?” 

“It’s as close as I can get, take it or leave it.” 

“As if I have the choice.” 

Illya takes Napoleon into his arms, he’s laughing now too, and soon they will be too awake to keep still, too restless to keep lying together like this, buzzing with each other’s presence, stronger than caffeine. And they’ll go for a walk today, or Illya will pose for a painting, or they’ll play a game of chess. Now, even though their days together aren’t numbered by anything but the time their hearts have left to beat, they still can’t waste a minute in love, because that’s the whole reason their hearts are beating at all.

**Author's Note:**

> tried something here with illya's perspective, time shifts, interwoven/piecemeal narrative.  
> this can be read without the first one in the series but it'll make more sense with both. 
> 
> title from harry styles' sunflower vol. 6


End file.
